No need for nostalgia -- history is now

OPENING DAY brought its usual rush of nostalgia at Pacific Bell Park yesterday with the sight of Willie Mays, Reggie Jackson and Ernie Banks roaming the field before the game. Older fans tend to get a little misty on such occasions, thinking to themselves, "Those were the days,"' but not this year. Not with Barry Bonds around.

These are the days.

Just as it took a hurricane-caliber force such as Michael Jordan to surpass the reputation of every great NBA player who came before him, Bonds represents an astonishing new world of power hitting. None of the comparisons hold up, not Babe Ruth or Henry Aaron or the more esoteric legends, such as Frank Howard or Joe Hauser or some Kansas farm boy they swear hit a 650-foot homer one night in the Sally League.

Nobody's ever seen anything like this, because there's never been anything like this. And forget the numbers, just for a moment. Bonds is the king of crush, the prince of scald. His home runs are right on the screws, every time. No lazy fly balls over some convenient porch, no half-baked drives generated mostly by the pitcher's power. Baseball reached a heady peak of superstardom in the 1950s and 60s, but you can bet your last bobblehead doll that nobody in the Musial-Williams-Mantle crowd ever powdered the ball as hard, or as often, as Barry Bonds.

For a long while, this game carried the disturbing feeling of injustice. Bonds' first at-bat looked like such a cinch to clear the wall in right-center,

fans were celebrating wildly in mid-flight. It was caught at the exact corner where the distance reads "421" (only two ballparks have a more distant target, the 434 feet in Miami and the 435 in Houston, both to dead center), and nobody could quite believe it.

Then came the bottom of the ninth, when the fans rose graciously to their feet for Tsuyoshi Shinjo. He was 1-for-15 on the season at that point, causing more than a bit of skepticism over the team's new leadoff hitter, but this was a game-winning moment -- man on second, two out -- and it was the loudest ovation for any hitter all day. It seemed an absolute crime that Shinjo, striking out, came up empty again.

And then came Bonds, one last time. The way this day was going, Alan Embree (yes, that Alan Embree) would have retired him in the 10th. But there was justice after all. Mere mortals failed, and the myth grew larger.ALL GOOD

It's remarkable how solid the Giants looked all week without Jeff Kent. Shinjo will come around -- especially on defense, where he will blow minds -- and the fans already are sold on David Bell and Reggie Sanders . . . Got a ton of e-mail response to the item suggesting that the A's bleacher drum-beaters disappear. The minority view: They're fun and harmless, let 'em play. Most readers favored outright banishment, one calling it "Chinese water torture," and the general tone was this: How can it be harmless if it drives people out of their seats -- or, in some cases, out of the park altogether? . . . Hilarious sequence of the week: Forbes Magazine announced that baseball operated at a $75 million profit last year, as opposed to Bud Selig's claim that it lost $232 million, and Selig scoffed, "Pure fiction." Sorry, Bud, we'll be the judge of that. Forbes' figures sound a lot more real. "Bud promises to respond," wrote Bill Conlin of the Philadelphia Daily News, "as soon he has more nose-reduction surgery after telling Congress his troubled sport could survive only with increased revenue sharing and help from the players' association." . . . Pretty good stuff, for a house organ: On Tuesday night, only hours after Giants general manager Brian Sabean expressed his frustration over Kent ("I'm up to here with Jeff") and well ahead of the next day's newspapers, the full story appeared on the Giants' Web site (www.sfgiants.com) through a writer from Major League Baseball's Internet service . . . In a remarkable interview with ESPN's Rick Sutcliffe, Bonds explained how he treats an at-bat against pitchers who throw 100 mph and beyond. He doesn't get fearful and defensive, thinking he'd better speed up his execution or be blown away. He imagines himself playing catch with the guy, casually absorbing the heat. The sense of urgency vanishes, Bonds' bat replaces the imaginary glove, and magic ensues.

Michael Jordan has left the magic realm. He was always one of those athletes -- along the lines of Tiger Woods, Wayne Gretzky, Marion Jones -- who was worth a newspaper column or television opinion piece at any time. You couldn't get enough of him. No more. All this speculation about his future, the tributes, the season evaluations -- worthless. Couldn't be more boring. Jordan proved he can still light up the basketball floor, but he just doesn't matter -- to the sport, to the league or to the fans. Only to himself . . . Bob Costas' contract renewal with HBO makes it apparent he's withdrawing from mainstream (i.e., network) sports coverage. That's a shame, but he remains the best interviewer in the business. Visiting the proud and difficult Jim Brown inside a Ventura County jail, Costas asked only the right questions. Brown admitted, "I should never have raised my hand to any woman," called acts of physical violence "a weak gesture" and admitted his failings as a father . . . Jared Jeffries' prospects as a pro, whenever he comes out: None. He'll be destroyed -- and after you refresh your memory with hard-line acts such as Kenyon Martin and Ben Wallace, you wonder if Drew Gooden will make an impact, either . . . The most watchable guard tandem in the country this year, at any level: Sue Bird and Diana Taurasi of the UConn women, hands down. The whole team was mind-blowing, always thinking pass, saying the right things, truly coming together as college seniors (what a concept) . . . As the NCAA Men's Tournament raged on in typically glorious fashion, you could just imagine a half dozen buffoons from the Bowl Championship Series, getting stone drunk and muttering, "Naw, our system is better." If you wonder how that could happen, how football could do anything but have a playoff system, take a moment to wander through a middle-of-the-road department store sometime. Go through the men's shirt section. Eighteen thousand shirts, not one of them cool. That's America. That's the BCS.